


Christmas Pudding, and the Like

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-01
Updated: 2006-01-01
Packaged: 2019-01-19 21:04:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12418122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: Response to Scrivenshaft Challenge Cycle IV. Two Head students deal with a Christmas party gone awry. Includes bonfires, raucous singing, fruity-ness, and a mutual understanding between Lily and James.





	Christmas Pudding, and the Like

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

**Christmas Pudding, and the Like**

 

**Disclaimer:** Let’s just keep it simple. I own nothing! Yay! Join me in the I-own-nothing-and-J.K. Rowling-owns-all dance of HP fanfiction! Okay. Maybe not.

 

“Merlin’s… _What_ is going on?”�

 

My head snaps around at the sound of that familiar voice, and I feel some sort of odd relief pour over me.

 

“Oh, you’re here!”� My voice sounds calm, yet forcedly so, to my ears. “Thank–”�

 

“Lil-y!”� a young voice behind me whines faintly. “Make it stop!”�

 

“ _What_ is going on?”� James Potter repeats, his eyes widening into full circles. It gives him a rather owlish look, and the thought threatens to force a laugh up my throat.

 

However, now is definitely not the time for that.

 

I turn back to the…um, mess, shall we call it, in the middle of the Gryffindor common room.

 

“Well, I–er, see, the thing is,”� I stammer, gesturing wildly, hoping my motions would make up for my lack of speech.

 

Potter strides to my side in a heartbeat, silent in what appears to be utter shock. His mouth is slightly agape, amusingly.

 

And the only reason I’m staring at him is because I don’t dare glance at the sight in front of me any longer.

 

At the beginning of December, in the spirit of the holiday season, Potter and I, Heads of the school, and the Prefects, came up with the brilliant idea of a contest to see which House displayed the most Yuletide cheer. The winning House would receive points (though how much, we couldn’t promise) from the judges, Dumbledore and willing members of the staff.

 

And Gryffindors, being, well, Gryffindors–proud and passionate and going above and beyond expectations–apparently decided to take the competition more seriously than the Quidditch Cup.

 

Maybe that’s an exaggeration, but I assure you, it is not a big one.

 

Strings of puffy popcorn dangle from the ceiling in crisscrosses like some otherworldly spider web. Mistletoe pixies, released by none other than Sirius Black (I vaguely wondered if they’re from Zonko’s), also hover near the ceiling, zipping in and out of the popcorn strands and looking for victims. I saw one pixie shriek suggestive and rather rude comments to poor little Charlie Coote while he was asking out a shy girl, her face a rich shade of pink.

 

The usually humble flame in the fireplace is an oversized bonfire, much reminiscent of those of Guy Fawkes Night. A cauldron full of mysterious brew, which some giggling third-year girls claim to be a love potion (they must be desperate, with the mistletoe already floating everywhere), sits amidst the flame, bubbling away.

 

Hestia Jones, an adorable, extroverted third-year, and her friends sit not too far from the potion, roasting marshmallows and crumpets over the tongues of flame while waiting for her pot of “Gram’s Caramel Sauce for Christmas Pudding”� to boil. How she managed to wheedle me into letting her do it here instead of in the kitchens, Merlin only knows.

 

Her pudding sits on the nearby table, and before I can grasp what is happening, Cameron Whitby Engorges the pudding, obviously trying to impress Hestia and friends. (They don’t look too impressed.) The giant sweet is now the size of a cauldron, like the ones on display in Diagon Alley, and the table is just about sagging under its weight.

 

It looks delectable, actually. I think I’ll nick a piece once Hestia finishes her caramel glaze.

 

Suddenly, a boy pops up from behind Cameron and casts some sort of enchantment on the dessert. It bursts out in song.

 

“ON THE FIRST DAY OF CHRISTMAS, MY TRUE LOVE GAVE TO ME!”�

 

I groan. Just how did these kids learn all these pointless spells made to annoy the Head Girl?

 

And if the insufferable singing isn’t bad enough, the pudding opens up and spews what appears to be an apricot at the table. (Hestia looks scandalized now.)

 

The pudding’s singing clashes horribly with that of the towering Christmas tree by the fireplace. I put it there, encouraging everyone to add a special, personalized ornament, so that the tree can show off a wonderful array of all the Gryffindors’ contributions.

 

This’ll definitely be the last time I ever ask for everyone’s input.

 

The tree no longer holds its traditional green hue, but flashes neon colors like some broken disco ball, no thanks to a certain Fabian Prewett, who practically idolizes (can you guess who?) the Marauders. Every time I performed the counter-charm, he automatically shot the same charm back at the tree. This lasted about three minutes before I threw my hands up in the air in defeat.

 

The laden branches sag from the weight of ornaments. The ordinary glass baubles and shimmering tinsel hang innocently, contributed by first years practicing _Wingardium Leviosa_. Charmed pixies sing (horribly out of tune, might I add) Christmas songs, warbling like songbirds with sore throats. Nevertheless, there is an exquisite star sitting proudly on the top, glowing (what else?) Gryffindor gold, courtesy of one of my best mates, Marlene McKinnon.

 

I sneak a sideways glance at Potter, who is still speechless. I wish he would say something, or start laughing, or at least display _some_ reaction.

 

Out of habit, my fingers fly to my mouth, and I start to chew on my (practically nonexistent) nails. I jerk my head away as the unpleasant taste of ink tinges my tongue.

 

Nasty, really, both the habit and the ink. Scrivenshaft’s should really consider making flavored ink. Then maybe I can actually write my Ancient Runes translation without worrying about the nasty taste of ink rubbing onto my fingers when I bite my nails.

 

“What happened?”� Potter finally asks, apparently still taking in the hectic scene with wide eyes.

 

Ah, he speaks.

 

“Er, I _thought_ that it would be a good idea to start decorating. Obviously–”�

 

“Not?”� he finishes, cocking an eyebrow at me.

 

I let out a sigh of agreement, and partial relief. I knew I could count on him to find this whole situation funny.

 

We just stare some more, in silence. It feels unreal, almost. Like I’m in the middle of an ocean of Gryffindors gone wild, and all I can do is try to stay afloat. Never mind trying to undo every single thing that doesn’t exactly match my original plan of a decorated common room.

 

“We’ll have to clean this up, y’know. McGonagall’ll go spare.”�

 

“I know. I was sort of waiting for you,”� I admit, wincing as the pudding spit an oversized date at the nearest armchair.

 

“Really?”� There’s no denying the astonishment in his voice.

 

“Yeah,”� I pause, thinking over my next words before saying them. “You really think I can handle all this by myself?”�

 

He grins cheekily. “Just needed the Potter charm, huh?”� I smack him in the shoulder (hard, for good measure) and roll my eyes. Trust James Potter to say something about his “Potter charm”� at a time like this.

 

But I really do mean it, that I need him to help with this huge mess. Despite what I may have believed at the beginning of the year, when I first learned that he was appointed Head Boy, he never ceases to amaze me with his leadership, rhetoric, quick thinking, and outside-the-box perspective.

 

“Ow!”� he exclaims. Rubbing his shoulder, he continues, “What! I would’ve never expected to hear anything like ‘I was waiting for you’ come out of _your_ mouth.”�

 

Truth be told, me either. Before this year, anyway.

 

“It’s not like I did all of the stuff this year by m–”�

 

An ear-splitting shriek cuts me off abruptly, and I see, to my horror, the bonfire shooting up and out of the fireplace, far, far out of its usual confines. I can only cast a fleeting glance at Potter, whose expression mirrors my own, before we fly to the fire, fighting against the crowd.

 

“ _Aguamenti_!”� we both shout above the ruckus, my wand aiming at the fire, and Potter’s at a burning branch of the tree.

 

With the help of some more students, the fire calms down fairly quickly, but the room is more chaotic than before (if possible), due to so many people crammed into one area, jostling each other.

 

“We need to clear the room, Evans,”� Potter says.

 

“Yeah, or else we’ll never clean this place up,”� I agree, sighing as the Christmas pudding spews out several more pieces of fruit.

 

“Okay, everyone! Get out! Out, out, OUT!”� Potter bellows, and I wonder if he’s somehow using the _Sonorus_ charm.

 

Red, my beloved, bright orange tabby, ( _there_ she is!) yowls as Dorcas Meadows nearly steps on her tail. I scoop her up without a second thought, and join in, yelling at the top of my voice, “All Gryffindors OUT of the common room, NOW!”�

 

The younger ones obediently start scrambling out of the room, most of them heading out of the portrait hole, while those maddening sixth-year boys who think they’re all that because they know the _Aguamenti_ charm don’t move a muscle.

 

My patience is really wearing thin, and a bunch of really great jinxes I could use cross my mind.

 

“You lot! OUT!”� Potter hollers, before I can pick a good jinx. (He knows me too well.) They give him eye-rolls, but start lumbering toward the boys’ staircase.

 

After a couple of minutes, the common room is deserted. I seal the portrait hole temporarily with an advanced charm, just in case some troublemaker pushes me into hexing them.

 

Without all of the people, it looks like there’s an even bigger mess. I didn’t even see the Christmas cards some people were making by the fire, and I grimace when I see that a good number of them are charred.

 

“Well, let’s get going,”� Potter suggests, rolling up his shirtsleeves.

 

“Right.”�

 

I lower Red to the ground, and she starts scurrying around the now-empty room, pawing at the Christmas tree ornaments.

 

I Levitate the still-bubbling cauldron out of the fireplace and onto a table. Its steam curls above the bluish-brown liquid, which hardly looks like a legitimate love potion. Nevertheless, a delicious cinnamon scent is gently wafting out of the pot, and I breathe in deep, until I feel a bit light-headed.

 

I _love_ the smell of cinnamon.

 

Meanwhile, Potter is staring at the Christmas pudding, expertly dodging its random fruit-sputtering. (Ah, the practical applications of Quidditch skills.) He apparently already Silenced its obnoxious singing, but can’t figure out the rest.

 

“Evans? You have any idea how to make this…thing stop spitting fruit?”�

 

“ _You_ should know,”� I reply, grinning and walking up to stand beside him. “With you and your lot wreaking as much havoc as humanly possible in these last seven years.”�

 

He chuckles, but shakes his head. “I’ve never seen anything like this, though.”�

 

We watch the pudding some more, as if it’ll stop if we stare at it long enough.

 

“Er, this isn’t really working,”� I finally say.

 

“I know.”� His brow is furrowed in thought. “Maybe…”� He trails off muttering incoherently.

 

I leave the pudding to him and start to _Scourgify_ the couches and walls with sticky fruit splotches. After that, I remove Hestia’s pot of caramel from the fire and set it to cool. It looks absolutely luscious, and before I can help it, I dip a finger into the sauce and try some.

 

It is absolutely _heavenly_.

 

I lick my fingers clean, but stop abruptly as the taste of ink overpowers the sweet stickiness.

 

Whoops. I guess I shouldn’t have contaminated the caramel. Oh well, no matter.

 

I Silence the pixies on the Christmas tree and then stand on tiptoe to straighten Marlene’s star. I can almost reach it–

 

“I’ve got it!”� Potter shouts, breaking my concentration. I lose my balance and topple forward onto the tree. My eyes squeeze shut, and my only thought is,

 

This is going to _hurt_. 

 

I fall into the tree, which, thankfully, is stuck to the ground pretty firmly. The needles prickle the skin on my face and arms.

 

Ow…pain.

 

Something bursts above my head, and a chilly glop of… _something_ oozes into my hair and down my back. I shudder, both from the slimy coolness and at the thought of exactly what it was.

 

“ _Des_ –Evans!”�

 

I hear Potter running over, and I’m genuinely glad that he thinks I’m more important than that ridiculous pudding right now. A pair of lanky (but surprisingly strong) arms slides around my waist and yanks me backward, and we stumble together and fall onto the floor.

 

Correction: he falls onto the floor; I fall on top of him.

 

I pull myself up into a sitting position, blink a few times, and rub my tingling cheeks before I realize that I’m sitting on Potter’s stomach.

 

“Oh my gosh!”� I laugh. “Sorry!”� I slide off of his body and lean against the bottom of the nearby couch.

 

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,”� Potter assures with a grin. He readjusts his crooked glasses and runs a hand through his hair back and forth a couple of times, out of habit.

 

He glances up at me, not quite meeting my eyes, and bursts out laughing. I suddenly become aware of my appearance as I reach up to my own hair, only to touch a cold, creamy…

 

Cranberry sauce?

 

I sniff my fingers.

 

“Cranberry sauce?”� I repeat, extremely puzzled.

 

He nods, still laughing, and then points to the ceiling. It’s all over the chandelier, too.

 

What in Merlin’s…

 

“The bauble,”� he laughs. “It was filled with cranberry sauce! It fell on your head and exploded when you fell on the tree!”�

 

“Wha–Why would someone put _cranberry sauce_ , of all things, in a bauble!”� I exclaim, chortling at the sheer nonsense of the thought.

 

“Those sneaky little first-years, you know. Just can’t trust ’em,”� Potter winks, making me laugh even more. “You never know what’s going to come from those minds. Exploding cranberry bombs–”�

 

A glob of currants flies through the air and lands on his face, spattering on his glasses. He looks absolutely floored. Then, as if hit by a spell, he leaps to his feet, looking ridiculous as he brandishes his wand and yells, “ _Desino Fructus_!”� at the pudding.

 

I just cannot stop laughing. “ _Desino Fructus_ ”�? When on earth would you use a bizarre spell like that?

 

Potter glances over at me, looking greatly entertained at my bouts of laughter. I finally calm down and begin to hiccup, much to my annoyance and to his amusement.

 

He glances at his watch, then looks at me with a serious, panicky expression. “It’s almost seven! Dumbledore and them are coming at eight!”�

 

My hiccupping stops immediately, and I stand up so fast, I nearly fall over (again). I nearly forgot the madness behind this mess in the first place! If we even had a _chance_ of winning now…(what did I say about Gryffindor pride?)

 

I meet Potter’s eyes, and he seems to be thinking the exact same thing. In the next moment, we’re both running around the common room like madmen (or a madman and madwoman).

 

“ _Wingardium Leviosa_!”�

 

“ _Scourgify_!”�

 

“ _Accio chair_!”�

 

“ _Evanesco_!”�

 

The two of us go on and on…

 

And on… ****

 

Finally, we collapse on the couch together, my leg banging against his, but I can’t even feel any remote pain. I am _exhausted_.

 

“Deck–ck the halls with…”� a pixie trills faintly, but I’m too tired to Silence it.

 

After an indeterminable amount of time, I feel my arm twitch from all of the night’s…activities. I find Red, who snuggles between us, and run my hand over her head, feeling the warm fuzz rub against my skin. My eyes roll lazily to the other body on the couch, and I can’t help but suppress a bubbly laugh. His hair is matted with sickly sweet fruit jam (maybe he didn’t dodge all of the puddings shots after all), and a pale, cranberry-colored glob is streaked across his shirt.

 

He catches my grin and chuckles softly himself. “You don’t look so beautiful yourself, Evans.”�

 

The comment is casual and without thought, I know, but I can’t help but feel a twinge of…nostalgia as I replay his words in my head.

 

_“You don’t look so beautiful yourself…”�_

 

He always called me beautiful and perfect and the girl of his dreams in years past. Of course, I always brushed his flattery off. It’s funny though, because after he sweet-talked me so much, I missed it when he stopped. Such is the irony of life. Indeed, Potter has a way of worming his words into _anyone’s_ heart, no matter how (in)sincere he sounds.

 

(Professor McGonagall is a prime example, as he always, always disrupts her class with jokes and off-topic comments and blatant cajoling, and yet she _still_ developed a soft spot for him and even his mates over the years.)

 

I know I don’t look like a pretty picture now; I can only imagine what that cold, lumpy cranberry sauce looks like against my hair. But his blasé remark still managed to strike some chord inside me.

 

My emotions must be flying across my face, because my eyes refocus, and I catch a very odd, unreadable expression on Potter’s face. And I know it’s not just because I didn’t instantly throw back some comment to continue our usual bandying. He can see what I’m thinking.

 

Ah, well. I’ve never been good at the whole stony-faced thing.

 

He looks as if something is on the tip of his tongue. An apology? Regret?

 

“I know,”� I say, robbing him of any chance to say sorry.

 

After all, it’s not fitting for him to apologize over something so trivial as a careless comment. If anything, I should be apologizing for reading so much into it, for having such inexplicable emotions.

 

Such as missing his constant pestering, his shameless flirting, his showers of compliments.

 

But then again, what girl doesn’t like to hear something nice from a guy? (No matter how big of a prat he may be.)

 

I shift a little and find a cozier spot for my leg. Red’s fine fur sweeps against my fingertips, and I rub behind her ears affectionately.

 

“I’ll get up if you get up,”� he mumbles, apparently using as little energy as possible to move his mouth.

 

Hah, like that’s going to happen anytime soon. I roll my eyes at him in response.

 

The muffled voices outside are rising in volume. I hear a couple of sixth-years trying to unlock the door, to no avail. I _should_ be letting them in now, I suppose. The common room looks decent enough, and Potter and I can hex anyone who tries anything that’s out of the question.

 

I let out a loud groan and stretch. My fingers finally wrap around my wand that was a couple of inches out of reach, and I point it toward the portrait hole to send the counter-spell that unlocks it. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Potter lazily raise his eyebrows in surprise.

 

“You’re letting them in?”�

 

I nod resignedly in response, although I’m sure the expression on my face says otherwise.

 

I lift my hand from Red’s warm head and gently shove her off of the cushiony sofa. Summoning all of the energy left in my legs, I spring up, with great effort and a resulting rush of blood to my head. Potter also forces himself up and takes a deep breath.

 

“Oy, Evans?”�

 

“Hmm?”� I flick my wand to the tree–my tree–in the corner, and green splashes over its singed pine needles.

 

“I, er, didn’t mean what I said earlier. Ab–about, you know.”� The words trip over his tongue, so unlike him.

 

I’m glad my back is toward him (he probably is, too), so my smile remains hidden. My stomach feels…giddy? (Is that possible?)

 

“I–I still think you are, y’know.”� A pause. “Beautiful.”�

 

My hand twirls effortlessly toward the door, which swings open. The rush of voices swells as the students clamber back into the room.

 

I turn and catch Potter’s eyes.

 

“I know.”�

 

**_Finis_ **

 

**A/N:** My first response to a challenge! And my first fic in a long, long time. Oh, it felt good to exercise my writing muscles again. I’m actually quite, quite pleased with this piece; I had tons of fun writing it. Please offer any thoughts, comments, suggestions, criticism, pointers, ANY feedback will be more than welcomed. Thanks so much for reading–this is one of the longest I’ve written. (Any holes in the plot I missed?)

 

.mische.


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